


Darling, it’s Sin; Where do I Begin?

by musiclily88



Series: Wasted Youth// There Wasn't Much to Waste [29]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:50:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2122536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She pursed her lips, bright pink lipstick exaggerating the effect. “I’m touched.”</p><p>“Touched in the head, maybe!” he crowed, feeling triumphant to have outsmarted the smartest of the Tomlinson children.</p><p>“I hate you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, it’s Sin; Where do I Begin?

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to note that this is utterly fiction. I am basing nothing in reality and merely play off of the one-dimensional public persona of these people. But this is a work of PURE IMAGINATION.

“You haven’t answered me.” Louis set his lips in a line that he hoped, at least, looked firm. His sister had a strange way of wheedling herself out of tight spots and he was _not_ going to give in now.

“I’m not going to answer you.”

“What?”

“Dude, you know why!” she said with a laugh.

“Not really.”

Lottie rolled her eyes. “Self-edification and being an adult and working through your own problems. That shit.”

“You really think I can do that?”

“I really think you can try.”

“And if not.”

She snorted.

“Fine,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “What is it that you wanted to ask, then.”

“I think I love her.”

He kept quiet.

“I can’t even—” Her voice dropped and she didn’t continue for a long, long time.

“You can’t even what?” he finally asked, voice low.

“I can’t even use the word love. I just—like. Fuck. I was trying to say I love chocolate cake, right, on our last date? Because cake, it’s just cake. And I couldn’t even say it. I was all, I like cake, this is my favorite kind of cake, how amazing is this cake. I couldn’t even say that I _love cake, Lou,_ what am I going to do?”

He blinked and nodded slowly. “You want advice about what you should do?”

“Right.”

“And you think you love her?”

“Right, again.”

“But do you love her?”

“I, that is.” Lottie bit her lip for a moment, face darkening. It cleared slowly. “I do.”

“Then tell her. Easy as that.”

She shook her head wildly. “Can’t, that’s not—no way. Not at all.”

“Uh huh.” Louis snorted. “I reckon you’ll tell her anyway. Moment of weakness, moment of cuteness. You’ll just kiss her cheek and admit you love her. It happens. Just like that.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he agreed, nodding slowly. “It’s more—genuine that way, innit. Not quite so much of a farcical movie. No horse-drawn carriages in the park, just you being the dork you are.”

She pursed her lips, bright pink lipstick exaggerating the effect. “I’m touched.”

“Touched in the head, maybe!” he crowed, feeling triumphant to have outsmarted the smartest of the Tomlinson children.

“I hate you.”

Only after she left the room did he realize she never answered his initial question.

***

“What are you doing?” Zayn asked, traipsing through the Tomlinsons’ back garden where Louis was occupied kicking a football up and down.

“Dunno. Exercising.” He sent the ball upward with a swift shot of his knee.

_“Why?”_

“Because exercise gives you endorphins, and endorphins make you happy, and happy people just don’t—shoot themselves in the head with a borrowed handgun.”

Zayn sighed. “You still on that?”

“Trying to get _off_ it, really,” Louis replied slowly.

“Wanna get off?” Zayn replied with a smirk.

“So subtle, you are,” Louis said lazily. “Not right now, rather have a kickabout for the mo?”

“Could do.” Zayn shrugged and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“What’s it?”

“Something’s, like, changed. You ‘ve.”

“Not so much as all that, really.”

“If you say so.” Zayn shuffled his feet awkwardly, kicking up grass as Louis knocked the football into the air, sweat collecting on his brow.

“I just—” Louis dropped the ball and let it roll toward Zayn without sparing it a glance. “I’m so sick of it all, okay? So just fucking, full to the tilt, ill of it al. So changing absolutely everything, one by one, seems to be my only option. And here we are.”

Zayn snorted, gesturing for Louis to pick up the ball and kick it to him. “What if it’s just a chemical thing and all this faffing about with emotions and touchy-feeling shit is pointless?”

“Correlation versus causation?”

“Sure.” Zayn bumped the football off his chest, huffing out a breath with each contact.

“Not sure it matters, then. Because things will be better anyway.”

Louis heard Zayn mutter something along the lines of _touchy-feely shite_ before he dropped the ball and dumped himself, cross-legged, onto the grass.

“Look,” Louis clipped out, voice sharp. “The emotional constipation game is getting fucking old, like ancient legends old. I’m a fucking teenager, and it’s ridiculous that I hate life this much.”

“What are you supposed to be, then, as a teenager, if not angsty?”

“Fuck _off._ I feel like a Jack Nicholson character in some shitty middle-age panic-attack movie, okay? I don’t want to do some ridiculous road trip with Helen whatsherface and a bleach-blonde closet case so I can find out I need to learn how to really live. I don’t want to go _that long_ being _that unhappy.”_

Zayn jutted his jaw out, holding his cig between two fingers. “It’s not always that easy, is it?”

“Why can’t something, just for fucking once, just be easy?”

“You are. I am. Is that not enough?” Zayn shot him a lazy grin.

The silence between them answered so that Louis didn’t have to. _Not anymore. Maybe it never was. Maybe it’s not supposed to be._

***

Louis convinced Zayn to stand up and actually attempt to have a kickabout, although the effort only lasted thirty minutes. Thirty minutes was apparently the full length of time Zayn could reasonably go without a fag.

“It’s predictable,” Zayn offered with a shrug, sitting down on the grass. “I’m predictable.”

“Like the inevitable heat death of the universe, you are.”

He swatted at Louis’ head. “Shut the fuck up.”

“You are, mate. Hate to break it.”

“Excuse you!” Zayn almost looked annoyed, or pained.

“Smoke and drink and fuck and wank.”

“And you’re so much better, are you? Picture of mental health?” he spat, eyes going absolutely molten.

“Maybe I’m trying to be.”

“Wasted.” He smirked and lay back, propping his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. 

“What, my effort is wasted?”

“Not—as such. But vague, goal-less effort is kinda ridiculous.”

“And you’re, what, slouching toward a Ph.D. here while I’m struggling not to succumb to ennui? Really?”

“At least I’m being genuine.”

“Genuine about your apathy? What the fuck are we even arguing about, here?”

Zayn sighed heavily, running one hand over the dark stubble along his jaw. “Look, without getting too deep into the values and morals shit, we can all generally agree that life is technically pointless? Like, there’s not one _thing_ that can readily be agreed upon as to the meaning of life, whether or not you believe in god or some kind of divine creator. There’s no sign path pointing us in the right direction.”

Louis considered this, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

“So you have to make that meaning for yourself, right? You can’t just take someone else’s mantra and pretend that’s _it_ for you. You can’t take someone else’s goals and pretend they’re your own if they’re _not.”_

“I don’t wanna do that!”

“No, you didn’t wanna do that when it was your arsey stepdad calling the shots for you. But it rings just as false to take someone else’s guidelines at face value without figuring out what the fuck you even want.”

“What the fuck, bro.”

Zayn cracked open one eye and settled back carefully into his pillowed arms. “I’m not saying I’d make a good motivational speaker, but I probably would.”

“You think life is pointless.”

“Only on a technicality,” he countered slowly. “If I want the point of my life to be competitive hot-dog eating, then it will be. If I want to spend my mindlessly fucking my way through my teenage years, I will. If I someday realize I want to watch you and Liam raise adopted toe-headed rugrats, that’s when I’ll know I’ve finally lost my mind and I’ll have myself committed.”

“I don’t want to have kids.”

Zayn snorted. “There you go, then ruining my dreams.”

“What the fuck is toe-headed, anyway? Is that like some racial thing? Are you mocking me for being white again?”

“It means blond. So. Kind of, I guess.”

“Whatever. Who’d have thought you’d have won back the moral high ground, eh?”

“I never lost it.”

Louis snorted. “You know that’s not true.”

“You don’t get to be superior just because—” Zayn stopped short, clenching his jaw hard.

“Say it. I fucking dare you.”

“Just because you saw someone bite it,” he whispered, having the fucking grace to at least look pained.

“I don’t get to consider maybe trying to turn my life around after something horrendous and huge and terrifying happens?”

“Step the fuck off, you’re not that much of a wanker, are you? To throw about phrases like _turn my life around,_ like that bastard had any say on what happens in your life.”

“Well he’s not the one having screaming nightmares, so fucking excuse me if I get to consider myself at least a little.” Louis kicked at the grass, feeling petulant.

“Unbelievable.”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

“And you love it.”

“Don’t tell me what I love!”

“You need it, something like this. The antagonism that makes you put up a fucking fight.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what I need. You’re a bloody hypocrite and I don’t take kindly to being preached at by hypocrites.”

“I’m not a hypocrite.”

“You said life is pointless and you’re spouting shit about me finally putting up a fucking fight? What’s the use in that, then if it’s all so bloody useless?”

“No, it’s—that’s the fucking comfort of it, innit? Getting to make up the rules as you go along. Not living up to anyone’s standards but your own, not failing someone else’s agenda? Their agenda doesn’t matter, if you’re just living life the way you want to.”

“And if I’m not?”

“That’s between you and your god, I suppose.”

“I don’t believe in god.”

“Really?” Zayn cracked open one eye. “I do.”

***  
Louis eventually begged off any more tiresome talk of god and humanity’s inherent need for some kind of saviour, stating, “I think my purpose in life was to have gone to CBGB while all of the Ramones were still alive.”

And Zayn had sighed like a world-weary priest explaining the origin of sin. He had massaged his temples and advised Louis to _find a new plan._

“That’s what I’m doing, innit, arsehole?”

“You’re not managing with any real efficiency.”

“Well, if life is meaningless, speed doesn’t matter.” With that, he had left Zayn lounging in the back garden.

Louis went inside to collect his schoolbooks and rung up Niall, who was had texted his mobile about girl troubles and some other related heterosexual sadness that Louis ignored. “Do you understand anything about science?” he asked without preamble, eliciting a laugh.

“Any specific science, or like the general concept of how earth sustains life?” Niall responded, sounding as though he had his mouth full. His stomach was clearly a bottomless pit incapable of heartburn.

“Christ, not you too.”

“Not me too, what?” Mercifully, Niall swallowed.

“I need to revise for chemistry and I can’t bloody understand this shit.” Louis waved his book in the air for emphasis, belatedly realizing Niall could not see him.

“Oh, is that all? Lemme rustle up my brother’s study guides, he sat chemistry like three years ago. I think da kept most of that stuff. Right sentimental, he is.”

“Really?”

“Course, mate, what are friends for?”

 _What are friends for, indeed,_ Louis wondered.

“Plus,” Niall added, “if we revise together you can help keep me on track with this literature shite. I dunno why I thought English would be a blow-off track. I mean really, I already speak the language, can’t that be enough?”

“To be fair, you barely speak the language,” Louis pointed out, trying to keep his voice light.

“You cunty English, hate the lot of you.” Niall sighed.

“Yeah yeah, you and the Scottish. Form a weird-talking club or sommat, don’t come bitching to me.”

“Whatever. You’re doing English in addition though, right, so you can help me?”

“Sure, can do.”

“Knew I shoulda dropped this one and just stuck with music production alone,” he added, sighing.

“Why didn’t you drop it, then?”

“Mrs. Lippman’s tits were proper giant before she left for maternity, obviously.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“I know! Anyway, I’ll take a look for his notes and let you know when I find them. Come by tomorrow and we can revise.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Ni, thanks.” Louis bit his lip over the sound of his very grateful voice, feeling small and ridiculous.

“Hey, whatever you need,” Niall replied casually, as though it were nothing. “Gotta go, me girl’s here.” As though that, too, were nothing.

“Oh, you two made up, then.”

“Yeah, your concern is bloody touching.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. See you tomorrow.”

***

“This is hieroglyphics, okay? This makes no sense.” Louis tossed his text aside with a groan and a clatter, the hard cover hitting the tile of the Horans’ kitchen floor.

“Don’t take it up with me, I didn’t ask you to sit this subject.” Niall leaned over to look at his brother’s notes. He grimaced sympathetically. “Chemical reactions sound a lot simpler when it’s, like, you know, sexual tension.”

“I doubt psychology would be any easier. People are even more fucked up than chemistry.”

Niall nodded, considering this. “That was beautiful. Gonna get that tattooed on me heart, I am. Right above the lyrics to the Irish national anthem.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Just the way I been raised.” He shrugged. “Maybe Babs’ name on my bicep, look like a proper badarse.”

“I give up on chem for now. What’s this your struggling with, then, distract me with Keats.”

“It’s Dylan Thomas, actually.”

Louis whistled slowly. “A man after our own hearts, all right. I can definitely help with some Thomas.”

“Whadda you mean? Hearts?”

“Bro. Romantic Welsh drunk who was like balls-deep in depression and craziness. But like classic crazy, you know? _Do not go gentle into that good night,_ you know, _rage against the dying of the light.”_ He looked at Niall, who stared at him blankly, shrugging like it all meant nothing. “It’s about death, reckon, but it could also be about fighting entropy and chaos and not letting yourself succumb to that scary shit, not getting mired down. He was this fucker who was just raw and real with his feelings. Probably because he was drunk all the time.”

“Life of the party,” Niall replied with a nod and a smirk, his eyebrow twitching up.

“Yes and no. You know that line—” Louis grappled for the poetry book and scanned the contents, opening to the page he desired. _“Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, / And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way._ It’s basically a lecture not to get ahead of yourself worrying that you’ll die someday, to just enjoy the sunset every once in awhile. Eventually you’re going to die, but you don’t have to take it all lying down. You don’t have to let go so easy.”

“Huh. That makes sense. I never got to that passage. I read the one about the baby in the fire in London and needed to have a lie-down, a shag, and a cry.”

Louis tipped his head back, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you heteros aren’t so different from the rest of us after all,” Louis said in sing-song, puckering out his lips obnoxiously. “I have so much to learn.”

After a moment, Niall reached out to cup Louis’ shoulder, face passive as steel. “Hey, bro? I don’t want to sound judgmental, okay. But. You gotta cut that. The weird detachment looker-on thing. You know? I’m not here to be your teaching tool, I’m here to be your friend.” He paused, giving Louis a searching glance. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, but this creepy distant thing isn’t on. Just be real, whatever that is. I don’t care if you’re fucked up, but just be real with me, okay? I’m not really into the put-upon hipster emo dreamboy thing, because I know you’re faking it.”

Louis licked his lips and shrugged, dislodging Niall’s hand, which the latter immediately replaced. “I’m so fucking sick of being sad.”

“I know, yeah. But you won’t be made happy by faking chipper and joking the pain away.”

Louis ran his tongue over his teeth, sucking at them slightly as he chose his words carefully. “It rings a little false getting lessons on this from you. No offense.” He thought he was echoing someone else and shook himself slightly, wondering when the inevitable intervention was coming, wondering just how long his friends had been planning on getting him to _stop fucking faking it._

“Everyone’s life has static. I’m not diminishing your pain, all right, or not trying to, whatever. I’m just saying my happiness isn’t an act—and it’s not so easily rocked as your fake cheery thing is.”

“You literally just said you had to have a fuck and a cry because of a poem.”

Niall rolled his eyes. “That’s what poetry’s meant to do, twat. Make you feel. And that’s not my point. What I mean, is, that pretending not to have big feelings doesn’t mean you don’t have big feelings.”

“What’s your point? Please?” Louis asked over the rising lump in his throat.

Niall shook his head. “Not everyone understands big feelings. They scare some people away, you know? But at least they’re real. And I get that you want happy, rather than a big pit of sad.”

“Okay.”

“But if you’re ever _not_ okay, if you’re in a big sad thing, you can talk to me. And I won’t freak out. I’m really good at the sounding board thing. That’s what me girl says, anyway. And I won’t spill your secrets, just like I won’t spill hers.”

“Mate, you have no idea what you’re signing on for.”

“I just, um. I need you to know that your feelings might seem too big, but you’re not ever a burden, not ever. We all need to be told that things can be okay even if they’re shitty. Just don’t fake it. That’s—isolating. You know?”

“You’re like a funky little Buddha, aren’t you? Damn. Think the I-need-help-with-literature thing was a ruse for you to get me talking. Holy shit.”

Niall shrugged and tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Technically you initiated that conversation.”

“So you’re, what, fucking prescient? Knew I was going to need help?”

“We all need help. Not everyone knows how to ask for it.”

Louis clucked at his teeth again. “I’m not asking.”

“I know.” He blessed Louis with a beatific smile and flicked through his poetry book. “Give me another poetry lesson, please. Leave me in tears.”

***

Louis continued to revise with Niall, alternately discussing his maudlin feelings about poetry and his frustration with chemistry. He sighed when Niall said that Barbara was coming over to revise for her drama and philosophy exams, but shrugged his acquiescence. 

Louis watched in uncharacteristic silence as Barbara, a pretty, slender girl, plopped down into the kitchen chair beside Niall and opened up a startling number of texts before herself. Periodically, Niall leant over to rub a gentle thumb across her cheek or to ghost a hand over her skinny shoulder. Louis somehow did not die of abject jealousy.

He continued revising with varying levels of total frustration, listening to Niall and Barbara’s whispered conversations and offering his unerring polite opinions. He watched Niall’s father enter the kitchen and pick Barbara bodily up into a hug, twirling her about gently before settling her back down again.

“You lot staying for dinner, then, I hope!” he called, moving to the fridge to gather ingredients.

Barbara bit her lip white, closing one of her books gently. “I dunno, Mr. Horan, you know how it is,” she said before trailing off, eyeing Louis nervously.

“Don’t have to eat, Babs, just come keep me company. This great lump spends so much time with food in his mouth he can’t make decent conversation,” Niall’s dad replied, gesturing with a spatula.

“Up to you, love,” Niall added in a murmur, staring down at his own book.

“And it’s Bobby, please, all of yous!” Mr. Horan insisted.

Louis clenched his fist underneath the table, both trying to decode the conversation and to figure out just what he should do.

“You too, Lou, you’re welcome to stick around. Talk about you loads, might as well give da a chance to put a face to it.” Niall gave Louis a lopsided grin.

Louis nodded slowly, glancing shyly at Barbara’s long, blonde hair where it hid her face. She scooted her chair closer to Niall’s and continued poring over her books without response, all of them revising as Mr. Horan clattered around the stovetop and fridge. He sang about ingredients in a low tone, calling out about _pork chops_ and _sweet potatoes!_ and _such little green beans, aren’t they cute._

Louis thought that perhaps Niall was quite a bit like his father.

He also watched Barbara grow increasingly fidgety in her seat as Niall’s shoulders set firmly, as Mr. Horan bustled cheerfully around the kitchen. “Hey, B? Um, you’re sitting philosophy, right?” Louis asked, eyes downcast.

“Yeah, that’s right,” she added, still staring at her book.

“Can you recommend anything by Foucault? I, um. Someone said I might like him.”

She met Louis’ eyes for a moment, startled, before tucking her chin down again. “My favorite is _Madness and Civilization._ Not hard to follow, if you read the translation. Unless you know French?”

“I don’t.”

Barbara sucked in her bottom lip, considering. “Stick with that, then.” She shrugged one shoulder.

“Lou, how do you like your pork?” Niall’s dad called across the room.

“I actually don’t know, sir. I’ll take it however you do?”

“Medium well it is, lad.”

“Thanks,” Louis said with a nod toward both Niall and his father. Niall had a tense hand on Barbara’s shoulder but managed to wink at Louis nonetheless. “Babs, love,” Louis added, “I really like your top. I think my sister’d covet it. Think I could get your info and pass it along? She digs fashion, considering drama too, actually.”

Barbara pulled her phone out of her purse without pause. “Sure, Louis. That’s fine with me.”

“Ta, love,” Louis said, typing Lottie’s number in to her mobile. “She’s fun.”

Barbara shrugged and picked up her book again. “Fun? Yeah?”

“Won’t hassle, I guess. I know you model, but like, Lottie won’t—”

“Lou,” Niall warned, growling so his father wouldn’t hear.

“Hey. Ni,” Louis said, pursing his lips for all he was worth. “That territorial jock motif is a good look for you.”

“He’s the manliest,” Barbara agreed, eyes locked on the page in front of her. “But I picked him for his charm and breezy demeanor.”

Then, “I’m breezy,” she, Niall, and Louis said in unison.

“You lot have terrible taste in television shows!” Mr. Horan called from across the room.

“You got the reference too, didn’t you?” Niall asked with a laugh.

“This next generation is entirely made up of people who would have gotten eaten by the watering hole. If people were gazelles, that is.”

“I’d shove Louis in the path of the oncoming lion and leg it, no worries,” Niall responded, flipping his poetry books right-side-up—apparently not having noticed he was attempting to read it upside-down for twenty minutes.

“I’d tie your shoelaces together,” Louis countered. Because, _really._

“Gazelles don’t wear shoes.”

“That’s why I don’t trust them.”

“You don’t trust anyone,” Niall lilted, staring down at his upturned book as though it was not, in fact, in English.

“That’s not…qualitatively true,” Louis replied slowly.

“What would everyone like to drink? Lager, mango juice, tea? I think we have Merlot somewhere too,” Niall’s dad asked as the oven timer beeped.

“Just water for me, sir,” Barbara said, glancing sideways at Niall.

“You really can call him Bobby. Lager, da, one for Louis too, please. Cheers.”

They lapsed into near-silence except for Mr. Horan, who hummed to himself as he cooked. Louis gave up any semblance of understanding chemistry and resorted to highlighting his favourite passages of _Wuthering Heights_ which were few and far between. Louis found he was growing sick of people dicking one another around just for fun.

Heaving out a sigh, Louis stood up. “Can I help out at all? This chemistry stuff is starting to look like Martian.”

“Beep-boop-beep,” Niall agreed, dropping his head sideways to land on Barbara’s shoulder.

“Sure, Lou, chop us some veg.”

“You might need to give me lessons. I don’t even fix dinner ‘round my own house.”

He listened as Mr. Horan gave him knife-holding techniques and set him loose on a bunch of sweet potatoes. He zoned out, all too content to be ordered around the kitchen, until the table was set and dinner was ready. Niall had cleared away everyone’s books before serving food, notably giving his father the biggest portion and Barbara the smallest.

Louis watched in silent amusement as Niall ate his own portion and helped himself to seconds. He also noted that Barbara seemed to cut her food into bite-sized pieces without ever, actually, placing a bite into her mouth. Rather she swung her cutlery about, gesticulating as she told stories and made Niall’s dad laugh. She drank rather a lot of water and excused herself midway through dinner to use the toilet.

Mr. Horan looked at Niall askance. “I’ll check on her,” Niall said immediately, hopping up to follow her retreating figure.

Louis set down his fork.

“She’s working on it, yeah. That’s all any of us can really do, isn’t it?” Niall’s father said, nodding slowly with sad eyes.

Louis blinked. “Yes, sir. It really is.”

**Author's Note:**

> -One of my best friends had the love-freakout. She eliminated the word “love” from her vocabulary for like two months. She told me I was her favorite kind of cake because she had stopped saying she loved me. It was neurotic and very delightful.
> 
> -I honest to god told my girlfriend I love her on accident. So that’s where that piece of trivia comes in. Literally, we were sitting on my bed, talking about stupid shit, sharing a beer, and I blurted, “Oh my god, I love you.” Pause. “Well, I was going to tell you in a more romantic way than that, but it’s true.” Her response was, “Yeah. I know. I love you too.” SACCHARINE.
> 
> -HOW easily can you all tell that I was an English and psych double-major during undergrad. HOW EASILY. Also Dylan Thomas rocks the fucking Kasbah so you should read his poetry please
> 
> -The conversation with Zayn comes from my own love of existentialism and the fact that I find the whole notion of the _no plan universe_ kind of comforting.
> 
> -The conversation with Niall comes from my recent therapy experience wherein my therapist told me that my BIG FEELINGS sometimes SCARE PEOPLE because they don’t understand that I need to (and will be able to) work through my issues. I got all ridiculous and said I needed to, like, pick dirt out of the wounds before I could let them scab over and heal. I am made of literature and ridiculous metaphors. BY WHICH I mean that taking stock of your life is important and understanding WHO you can go to when you need to bitch WITHOUT JUDGMENT OR REPRIMAND is important. Sometimes you need a sounding board, not a lecture.
> 
> -Michel Foucault is SUPER interesting. Madness and Civilization is one of my favorites! I read it in depth when doing my honors thesis during undergrad.
> 
> -Comment, kudos, critique, talk about poetry, give me your thoughts about defense mechanisms, etc.! Also if you want me to keep explaining my thought processes after these chapters, I can do that!
> 
> -Come yell at me on tumblr: musiclily


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